


Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Griffin.”</p><p> <i>“Blake.” </i></p><p>They eye each other warily, eyes narrowed and teeth clenched, her fingernails sharp and his grin feral. </p><p>And this is how it always goes: she curses his ears to twitch all day, and he hexes her so bats fly out of her nose. She turns his morning porridge into concrete and he turns her eyebrows pink. They have Transfiguration together, and Mcgonagall makes them sit at different ends of the room, the only students to have been assigned seats. </p><p>Or; The rivalry between Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin is a thing of legends, but it doesn't exactly stop him from making out with her either. Originally posted as a tumblr prompt fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tessomancy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a [tumblr prompt fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4368716/chapters/10190318) but the very awesome [Mia](http://lordmxrphy.tumblr.com/) has requested that I post it as a stand-alone fic. So here we are!

“Griffin.” **  
**

“ _Blake_.”

They eye each other warily, eyes narrowed and teeth clenched, her fingernails sharp and his grin feral.

And this is how it always goes: she curses his ears to twitch all day, and he hexes her so bats fly out of her nose. She turns his morning porridge into concrete and he turns her eyebrows pink. They have Transfiguration together, and Mcgonagall makes them sit at different ends of the room, the only students to have been assigned seats.

She eyes them furtively even after, left eye twitching, and suffice to say she hasn’t forgotten the last time they got into a brawl, with Bellamy suspended from his ankles in his underwear and Clarke’s toenails tearing through the sole of her shoes as they grew.

(Honestly, there’s no point separating them because she looks for him anyway, raring for a fight, and he’ll cast a jelly legs jinx the same time she sends a tongue tying curse his way, and well.)

Their rivalry is a thing of legends- Slytherin’s head girl and Gryffindor’s golden boy, ripping into each other at every opportunity- and the first years scatter when they see them approaching in corridors, squealing; their professors exasperated when they disrupt class  _yet again_  to conduct a shouting match on wand holding techniques.

Everyone knows of them. Everyone, except Professor Trelawney.

She slams her book down on the table, quivering, as she settles in across him. He shoots her a scowl, steadying the rattling teacups and pointedly looks away.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with  _you_ ,” she mutters, pulling her hair away from her face, “just so you know, I’ve already requested for a change in partners.”

“Oh, and Trelawney didn’t immediately attend to your needs and do your bidding? Shame.” he drawls. She shoots him a pointed glare before kicking out at him, and he yelps as the chair jerks below him, nearly sending him sprawling.

“Just drink your tea already,” she says tightly.

“I don’t take orders from you,” he retorts, and he sees her arm twitch, inching towards her wand stashed by the side of her skirt, before she relents. Shooting him yet another venomous look, she downs her tea and slams it down onto the table defiantly.

“Manners,” he admonishes, grinning at the ugly expression on her face, before he downs his too. The liquid burns hot against his throat, sickly sweet and musky, and he has to resist the urge to gag, setting the cup down before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

They exchange cups, her fingers brushing against his, cool against his overheated skin, and she jerks backwards so abruptly he’s surprised she doesn’t fall off her chair.

“There’s a man in your cup,” she says, after a beat, “oh, and he has horns on his head?” She wrinkles her brow in mock confusion, peering harder into the depths of the cup, “I think he’s holding a pitchfork. He’s also telling me that he is the personification of your soul, Blake.”

“Real original of-”

“What’s the fuss here?” Trelawney snaps, bustling over, and the class falls silent almost instantly, anticipation and glee written all over their faces. “It’s starting,” Someone hisses, and he can hear people shifting in their seats, braced for the inevitable showdown.

He’s sorely tempted to say something that will set Clarke off, but the big game is next week and he really can’t afford detention right now, so he says instead, “Nothing, professor. I was just about to read Grif- I mean, Clarke’s tea leaves.”

“Well get on with it, then.”

“In front of everybody?” he says stupidly, and catching sight of the murderous expression on her face, pretends to be absorbed by what he sees in the cup.

“I think there’s a leaf in here,” he starts reluctantly, “It looks like a maple leaf.”

“Miss Griffin, would you kindly read out what it symbolises?”  

She sighs, aggrieved, flipping to the page before beginning to read in a monotonous voice, “It is often placed at the foot of beds to ward off demons and to encourage peaceful sleep. It, much like the sap it produces, depicts the sweetness and wonder of love in everyday life. The maple leaf is also the emblem of lovers.” She halts, cheeks colouring, as the class bursts into sniggers and whispers.

“Actually, it looks more like a turtle,” Bellamy adds quickly, “Look, I can make out a shell if I tilt the cup a little to the left.”

“Because of its hard casing, the shell is a protective image,” Miller reads through barely concealed laughter, a tremor running through his body, and Bellamy has never wanted to strangle his best friend more, “It symbolizes the protective quality love sometimes takes.”

Someone hoots, Murphy reaching over to ruffle his hair and put him as Bellamy squirms, trying to push him off, and with everything going on, he expects Clarke to say something,  _fight back,_ but she’s just sitting there, face red, eyes lowered.

Trelawney eventually restores order, and she’s still not looking at him, her gaze fixed on the point above his head. He chances a quick look down at her hands, wonders if she already has her a wand at the ready, but they’re curled into fists, fingernails digging into the soft skin of her palm.

He lowers his voice, ducks closer so she can hear him, “Look, I didn’t do that on purpose.”

“Don’t,” She whispers, her voice sharp and brittle, and he has never heard her sound like this before. He’s known her for five years and in those years she had always been princess, her voice frosty, her demeanour snobbish, lips twisting to deliver yet another cutting remark and a curse to boot.

Nothing he’s ever done has warranted such a reaction from her. He wets his lips, scrambles to come up with something to say-

Then class is over, and she leaps out of her seat, nearly barreling over Murphy in her haste to get away. He swears under his breath, jumps up to follow her.

“Hey, Griffin! Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, sliding past a pair of startled first years, “Would you just wait up already?”

She ignores him, marching down the corridor to Charms, which is blessedly empty. He has to run a little to catch up to her stride, grappling for her elbow before he manages to get a tight hold on it.

“What is with you?” he snaps, “Look, I’m sorry if I tarnished your precious reputation out there, being associated with a  _muggleborn_  like me-”

“That is  _not_ what this is about!”

“That is exactly what this is about,” he fumes, fingers trembling as he shoves them into the pockets of his pants forcefully, “ _Princess Griffin_ , directly descended from Salazar Slytherin, all high and mighty and better-”

“Shut up.” she says, voice tremulous, but he can’t seem to stop the vitriol tumbling off his tongue, bitter and angry, wonders if he’s imagining the taste of blood caught between his teeth-

That’s when she kisses him, backing him up against the wall, her fingers tangling in his tie to pull him closer. Her lips are insistent on his as he exhales shakily against her cheek, his teeth scraping against hers.

She kisses like how she fights- unrelenting and bruising, all heat- and like everything with them, it becomes a competition. Clarke bites down on his lower lip until he moans into her mouth, and he slides his hand down her spine to palm her ass, crushing her to his chest until she squeaks. She digs her fingernails into his side, chipped and uneven against his skin, and he buries his fingers in her hair, twisting it in his grip.

Clarke pulls away first, breathing heavily, her left cheek red from when his stubble had chafed against her skin. He reaches out to touch her, fingers dancing against her cheekbone, and she leans into his touch for a second, eyes closed, before stepping away.

“It’s not about your blood status,” she says haltingly, her voice shaky, “Okay?” Then before he has the chance to ask her about it, she walks away, her steps hurried but measured, hair still partly braided from where he had ran his fingers through it.

(“Where the hell were you?” Miller hisses, when he slides into Charms class fifteen minutes late. “Nowhere,” He grouches, fixing his tie- and he only sees it later- black and blue against his hipbone, half moon crescents on his back, and honestly, he’s not surprised that she’s left a mark.) 


	2. patronus

He’s suddenly and irrevocably aware of Clarke Griffin now, and he hates it.

He sees her in the dining hall, tying cherry stems with her tongue, and he’ll think of the sweep of her tongue against his, the moan she breathes into his mouth. She’ll be in the library, hands holding together the spines of falling apart books, flipping the thin pages gently, and his mouth will go dry at the thought of those fingers against his spine, the scratch of nails against his skin.

Miller sneaks a few bottles of firewhisky from the kitchens, and Roma kisses him that night, eager and sloppy. When he pulls away, sweaty and bleary eyed, he swears he can still taste Clarke against his lips, spicy and musky and intoxicating.

He buries his head against Miller’s neck, woozy and overheated, his thoughts sluggish and movements clumsy, mutters against his skin, “Clarke Griffin has fucking  _ruined_  me.”

The morning after is terrible. He wakes up, and he tastes death in his mouth, breath foul and stale and acrid. Miller makes him drink three glasses of orange juice, attempts to sort out his hair while Bellamy sulks into his food, cursing the creators of firewhiskey.

(He sees a flash of blonde two tables away, the glint of a prefect’s badge, and he stumbles away before he can get a better look)

Potions go by relatively quickly- it’s a combined class with the hufflepuffs, and he’s working with Jasper Jordan, who actually knows what’s going on in class- so Bellamy manages to coast by and submits a passable befuddlement draught.

His last class of the day is charms with the slytherins, and the sight of Clarke turns his stomach. Her hair is done up in a set of intricate braids again, the pale cream of her bra strap showing when her sweater falls off her shoulder. He averts his eyes, stares down at his piece of parchment until the lesson starts.

It’s a extremely tricky lesson- they’re learning how to conjure the patronus charm- and thankfully he doesn’t do too badly, despite being distracted. He’s able to produce puffs of silver vapour when class ends, the vague outline of his patronus huge and hulking.

“Hey,” Murphy snickers, coming up behind him as he puts away his things, “look at the princess. She’s terrible.”

He scans the classroom, finds her by the back of the classroom, face screwed up in concentration, still practicing. She’s barely producing any vapours at all, and it’s clear she’s frustrated, if her furrowed brow and clenched fists are anything to go by.

“Guess she can’t be good at everything,” Murphy smirks, and he barely manages a half-hearted, “Yeah,” before people start pushing past him to get to the dining hall.

“Are you coming or what?” Miller says, shoving him lightly as he slings his bag over his shoulder.

“You guys go ahead,” he says, pretending to rifle for something in his bag, avoiding Miller’s piercing gaze. Sometimes, he hate how shrewd his best friend is. “I’ll catch up.” He insists, and Murphy finally relents, taking Miller with him.

The classroom empties out, and it’s just them now. She has her back facing him, her posture ramrod straight, her wand held stiffly in her grip. He drops his bag back onto the table, clears his throat so she’ll notice him.

“What?” she snaps, dropping her arms to her sides, “stayed behind to gloat?”

“Maybe,” he snarks, and they’re back in familiar territory, all hostilities and confrontations, and the pressure against his chest seems to lift. This he can deal with. This he can understand.

“Relax your goddamn arm,” Bellamy mutters, poking at her elbow with his wand, “what are you, a corpse? Loosen up.”

She shoots him an icy glare, but shakes out her arm anyway, shifting closer. He can smell her shampoo, lavender and violets, and for a second he loses his train of thought.

“Don’t jab,” he adds hastily, when she makes an exaggerated move that nearly takes out his eyeball, "flick.” He wraps his hand around her wrist, shows her exactly how to do it, and he can feel her rabbit-like pulse against his skin.

“Why are you helping me?” she murmurs, her gaze flitting upwards to meet his, and he finds himself staring at the arch of her neck, the slight bob of her throat when she swallows. He doesn’t know what to say- he never knows what to say- so he strokes his thumb over her wrist instead, holds her gaze. Clarke shudders, her breath shaky when she exhales.

He’s not sure if she reaches for him first, or if he did, but her lips are on his, urgent and unyielding, and he winds his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She makes a breathy whine when he latches onto her neck, nosing at the goddamn bra strap that has been taunting him all day. “Fuck,” she breathes when his teeth grazes her jaw, her hands fumbling against his sweater while he slides his hands under hers.

Bellamy smiles against her neck, pinches her waist slightly, “Swearing is unbecoming of you, Griffin.”

“You’re infuriating,” she tells him, her nails skimming over the taut skin of his stomach, settling on the vee of his hipbones, “shut up already,” she says, interposed between kisses against his earlobe, his collarbone.

He pulls away when the need to breathe is too much, and he can hear Clarke’s ragged breaths against his neck before she buries her face into his sweater, groaning. Bellamy’s grinning like an idiot now, his hand cradling the back of her neck so he can rest his chin on her head.

“Last time,” she says firmly, her voice muffled against the thick fabric of his sweater.

“You like me,” he says, smug, and she retaliates by thumping her fist against his chest.

“I don’t like you,” she says, petulant, “I like  _this_.”

“Making out in classrooms and groping each other in corridors?”

Clarke sighs, pushing her hair away from her face, and before he can over think it, he reaches out to smooth down her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear.

“I mean it, Bellamy.” she says, side stepping away from him, smoothing down her skirt, “We can’t do this again.”

He’s not surprised- he isn’t, really- because Clarke has standards to maintain, a reputation to upkeep, and he can only imagine the scandal that it will cause if they were to ever date, despite her insistence that it’s not about his blood status. A pureblood slytherin shacking it up with a mudblood gryffindor? Ha.

Her rejection still stings though, so he makes sure he injects enough venom in his voice when he says, “Whatever the hell you want, princess. Last time it is.”

(It’s  _definitely_  not the last time.)


	3. three times they almost get caught, one time they do

**(1)  
**

She walks into the great hall to thunderous applause, to raucous whoops and some jeers, and he thinks he’s the only one who can tell that she’s nervous.

Clarke settles into her seat, chin held high and eyes steely, frost and fire all at once. A Ravenclaw lobs a bread roll at her, and she blasts it away with a lazy flick of her wand before going back to buttering her toast serenely.

He hides his smirk behind his palm, thinks,  _that’s my princess,_  and has to spend the rest of breakfast not dwelling on where that thought had come from.

“My money’s on Ravenclaw.” Murphy says, sliding him another bowl of porridge, (He sure has motherly instincts for someone quite so aggressive) and he inhales it before sneaking another quick peek at Clarke. She catches him staring and drops him a sly wink, adjusting her emerald seeker robes, and he sputters on his juice.

Murphy thumps him on the back, mutters, “What’s  _with_ you?” while Bellamy tries to wave him off, croaking, “Save me a seat,” before ducking out. He sucks in a breath of cold air, lets his head fall back against the wall as he runs his palm over his face, because seriously, _fuck Clarke Griffin_.

“Not going to wish me any luck?” her voice teases, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when she rounds the corner, laughing.

“Well I couldn’t. Not when everyone was around.” he counters, pulling her close so she can rest her chin against his shoulder, her breath tickling his jaw. “You’re going to kill it, Griffin.” He says against the shell of her ear, tries not to show how pleased he is when she shivers.

“What if we don’t win?” she says softly, just meant for him to hear, and he tightens his hold on her, briefly allows himself to wonder how they got here- enemies once before, confidants now- before murmuring, “You  _will_ ,” as he strokes her hair.

“You’ll be in the stands, right?” Clarke says, pulling back, her fingers tapping a beat against his elbow.

“Front row, princess.” he assures her, leaning down to kiss her just how she likes it, slow and deep and languid. She sighs into his mouth, relaxing, her fingers winding around his tie as he fumbles with the clip of her robes.

She giggles, unclips it in one smooth motion before letting it fall from her shoulders as he surges up to kiss her again, trailing his lips down her jaw and onto her neck.

“No marks,” Clarke chides, and he grunts into the juncture between her neck and her shoulder, giving it a light kiss as she grabs his ass. He shoots her a mock-stern look and she laughs again, kissing his nose, pecking his eyelids while he grins at her stupidly.

“Clarke? You out there?”

Bellamy swears under his breath, pushing her off gently while she scrambles for her robes. He straightens his tie, schools his expression into one of pure contempt.

“Oh,” Raven says, catching sight of him, “Blake? What are you doing here?”

“Wishing the princess best of luck on her game,” he says snarkily, giving a mock bow as Clarke stares at him, expression stony, “Don’t fall off your broom.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” she snaps, turning away, manner now brisk and efficient, “Let’s have a fair game, Raven. I like you, so I don’t want to have one of my beaters send a bludger your way.”

He slinks off when Raven’s distracted, making his way to the pitch. He doesn’t manage to find Murphy before the game starts, but he’s sure that it’s a blessing in disguise considering he forgets to exercise restraint and jumps up to cheer with the rest of the Slytherins when Clarke snags the snitch, 320-180.

(“I just lost twenty sickles.” Murphy grumbles as they trudge back up to the castle, and well, he thinks, smiling smugly into his scarf, that’s what you get when you bet against the princess.)

**(2)**

“There’s too much light in here.” Clarke grumbles, burrowing under his blanket, “Ugh, Gryffindors. It’s because of your constant need to show off, isn’t it?”

He snorts, resumes his task of tracing circles on her back, “I suppose the Slytherin dormitory is pitch black, like your souls?”

“Duh,” she says, flipping over so she can rest her head against his chest, before adding hesitantly, “I’ll bring you someday, if you want.”

He busies himself with playing with the ends of her hair, tries not to think about the implications of the statement- that this is a long-term arrangement, that she wants to keep him around- and instead, loops his gryffindor scarf around her neck instead.

“Beautiful,” He comments, and she flushes prettily before yanking it off, straddling his lap to kiss him. Okay, so maybe skipping charms isn’t a great idea when they have their N.E.W.T.S this year, but it’s _Clarke_ and-

“Shit,” she swears, pulling away, her hand still resting against his chest, mouth swollen and hair mussed, “Did you hear that?”

“What?” he asks, dazed, and he can’t help but get distracted by her weight on top of his, the mark he left along her ribs-

“Someone’s coming.” she hisses, jumping off him, “Where my clothes?” she wails, and finally something clicks into place and he’s on his feet as well, trying to think of a place for Clarke to hide-

“Under the bed,” he says as she scoots into the tiny space, still stark naked, and now glaring at him, “I’ll get your clothes in a bit, okay?” he says through gritted teeth, sliding back onto the bed and pulling up the covers just as the door slams open.

“There you are.” Murphy says, striding in, “What’s up with you? Miller has been looking for you all day.”

He grunts, burying his face into his pillow, hopes he sounds convincing when he moans, “Sick.”

“You were fine yesterday,” Murphy says, laying a hand on his forehead (what a motherly asshole) while Bellamy tries to swat him off, “is it the flu?”

“I don’t know,” he whines, turning over, forcing Murphy to walk over to the other side, away from Clarke, “throat hurts.”

He sighs, weary and exhausted, “Fine, stay up here if you want. I’ll bring dinner up for you if you’re still feeling shitty tonight.”

“Thanks,” he says faintly, digging his nails into his palms so he wouldn’t burst out laughing, “Soup, please.”

“Sleep, asshole.” Murphy grumbles, dimming the lights before ducking out. Bellamy holds his breath, waits until he hears the familiar rumble of the portrait swinging open, before he pushes off his sheets.

“Clarke?”

She groans, tumbling out from beneath the bed, her hair a mess. He stifles his laugh in lieu of helping her up, brushing lint off her thighs.

“Your carpet chafes,” she says, all accusatory, “And John Murphy is actually a good friend. Huh. Never thought I would ever say that.”

“Neither would I.”

She leans over to kiss him again, tongue tracing his lips, hand resting possessively against his neck. He deepens the kiss, slides his hand down to her thigh when she pulls away, smiling sweetly.

“You know, this wouldn’t have happened in the Slytherin dorms.”

He scowls at her, nips at her lip, “Oh yeah, princess?”

(It does, and Bellamy had to hide under the sofa in the common room for a whole hour before Clarke rescues him. It’s the worst.)

**(3)**

The transfiguration classroom is blessedly empty when he pulls Clarke in, swinging her up on McGonagall’s desk so he can kiss her again. Bellamy hasn’t seen her in three days- with the hubbub of exams and lessons, meeting up was impossible- so when he spots her in the corridor, alone, he pretty much drags her to the nearest empty classroom to make out.  _What?_ He misses her, alright?

She giggles at his enthusiasm, the sloppy slip of his mouth against hers, the way he grabs at the hem of her shirt. “I take it you missed me?” she says in between kisses, wrapping her thighs around his waist as he groans.

“Yeah, the last few days have been hell,” he says against her skin, pulling off his own shirt smoothly when she struggles to get it past his arms.

She makes a face, leans down to bite at his shoulder, “Sorry. Didn’t want to risk it when my mom was here.”

_“What?”_

She sighs, tangling her fingers in his hair, “She’s on the board for the Ministry of Education, so she came over to invigilate this years O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S.” Bellamy racks his brains, tries to remember if there had been anyone that resembled Clarke- the same blue eyes, or the distinctive shade of her hair- but he comes up short.

“We,” she says haltingly, “we don’t get along. If she knew we were doing this, she would-”

“Put a stop to it?” he finishes, trying to ignore the twisting sensation in his gut.

She nods, cupping his jaw, “She doesn’t think I should date anyone, and that I should focus on my studies,” she drones, in what he assumes is a poor imitation of her mother’s voice, “When I was into this guy from Hufflepuff, Finn?” He stares at her blankly, and she groans in frustration, “See? Anyway, she got him expelled. That’s why I can’t tell anyone about-”

It’s a serious matter- she’s confiding in him about her past, her family- but he can’t help it, he has to say something, “We’re dating?”

Clarke gapes, “Only if you want to,” She says finally, stumbling over her words, “I mean-”

“I want to,” he says, brushing his lips over her knuckles. She positively beams at that, leaning in to nuzzle his neck and he can’t stop smiling, teeth bumping into hers when they kiss, her forehead resting against his.

“I would have asked you out a long time ago if I’ve known it would make you this happy,” she says, amused, pressing a kiss against the corner of his eye. It’s warm and full of affection, a far cry from their earlier trysts, and he reciprocates by tickling her sides, making her shriek.

He’s trying to unclasp her bra when he hears a flurry of footsteps, Professor Mcgonagall’s familiar bark, the squeak of the floorboards by the classroom-

“Go by the back,” Bellamy huffs, pushing her towards the door while he tries to locate his shirt. He catches a glimpse of her blonde hair slipping out of the door, just as the door swings open, revealing a bunch of second year hufflepuffs and one very disgruntled professor.

“Bell!” He hears Octavia shriek, hand over her eyes, “Gross! Where’s your shirt?”

“It appears that I have misplaced it,” he says brightly, trying to ignore Professor McGonagall’s disapproving look, “Oh, there it is.”

He shoves it on roughly, trying to tune out the high-pitched giggles and a unimpressed sniff, “Have a good class, O.” he manages, sliding past the professor, who backs away from him as if he’s contracted lice, before hurrying down the corridor, trying not to blush at the eruption of laughter that follows him.

(“Poor baby,” Clarke coos when he tells her about it, sulking, but she makes it up to him after, so all is good.)

**(+1)**

The one time he gets her bra off without her help, (look, clasps are tricky. He broke one of hers before and he got the silent treatment for a week) he loses it.

“I put it right there,” he mutters, as Clarke pulls at her sweater, glaring at him.

“You flung it somewhere,” she grumbles, “Bellamy, bras are expensive. And that was my favourite one.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it was my favourite too.” he mumbles, and she smacks him in the head with a book.

“Sorry,” he tells her, smoothing out her hair, before pressing her up against the bookshelves to give her a proper kiss, “I’ll look around for it, I swear.”

“You better,” she mutters, smacking his chest.

He slings his arm around her, pressing one last kiss to her hair, when Miller shows up out of absolutely nowhere. He nearly shoves her into a bookcase in his haste to put some distance between them, and she shoots him a venomous look when she recovers.

“Hey Miller,” she says politely, “Don’t we have potions in a bit?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, “Was just looking for Blake.”

“Let’s go then,” he says abruptly, trying to grab onto Miller’s arm to steer him away, but his friend wiggles out of his grip.

“You misplaced something, Griffin.” he says, jerking his head to a crumpled heap on the ground, and it’s definitely Clarke’s favourite purple bra, “Better not leave it lying around now.”

Clarke blushes a violent shade of red, stuttering as Bellamy gapes, his brain scrambling to come up with something plausible-

Miller throws them a wink, smirking, “See you guys in class.”


	4. eventually, everyone finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a companion piece of sorts, mostly written because I really wanted to play around with the other characters in this universe! I might write this in Bellamy/Clarke's point of view, if people want me to.

**+Murphy  
**

Murphy should have really seen this coming.

He remembers looking at them- everyone looked at them; it was hard _not_  to look at something that blazed and burned quite so fiercely- and wondering, idly, when they would finally fall off the knife’s edge.

Because that was what had always struck him about Bellamy and Clarke: the fine line they walked upon, the precipice they dangled from. Two opposing forces poised to crash against each other, built to wreck, to break. Fight or fuck. No in between.

(Honestly, Murphy has been betting on them fucking for a while now. He’s not  _blind._  He sees the way they circle each other, the heat in Bellamy’s glare, like he would want nothing more than to throw princess up against the wall and have his way with her, princess raking her claws against his skin, predatory rather than aggressive.)

Then the princess falls, the force of the bludger slamming her against the ground, and he swears he hears her bones crunch beneath the impact, a cry of pain tearing from her lips.

And rising above the din of everything else, he hears it.

Bellamy’s shout from across the field- not princess, or Griffin- just her name.  _Clarke._

Murphy disembarks from his broom, a few feet away from her prone form, tries not to throw up at the sight of the bone protruding from her elbow, white shard prominent and ripping through skin. Blood and gore. (It’s enough to make him feel sick to the stomach.)

But he can’t just leave her- not while her teammates aren’t here yet- so he swallows, forces himself to close the distance between them, dropping to his knees.

“Hey,” he manages, “Your teammates, they’re coming down now. I’m bad at healing, so you should-”

Then Bellamy’s by his side, pushing him away roughly, eyes wide and unseeing, hands trembling as he rests them against her cheeks.

“Clarke,” he breathes, pushing her matted locks away from her face, his nails now slick with her blood, “You’re going to be okay.”

She whimpers, a small, frightened sound, and Murphy never thought the princess could even  _sound_  like this-

“Bell, it  _hurts_ -”

He releases a breath, a ragged sound, still stroking her hair as she cries out, and it seems to jerk him out of his stupor because he’s looking at Murphy now, wild and panicked, unrecognizable.

“I need a bandage, a rag, anything-”

Anya lands next to them, her emerald robes rippling behind her, the tense set of her jaw the only indication that she’s as distressed as they are.

“She needs to go the hospital wing,” she says, voice pinched, summoning a stretcher with a precise flick of her wand.

Murphy reaches for his, ready to cast a simple hover charm on Clarke, but Bellamy beats him to it, scooping her up gently in his arms and settling her down carefully.

“I’ll take her,” he says, voice raw, and the shine in his eyes is unmistakable. He hasn’t seen Bellamy cry since he was eleven, homesick and missing Octavia, curled into himself and hiding in the space under his bed. Murphy looks away.

“There’s something I thought I’d never see,” Anya remarks, quiet, as they disappear back into the darkness of the castle.  

Murphy snorts, pushing himself off the ground, and he never thought he would agree with a  _slytherin_  on anything, but-  

“You and me both.”

**+Monty**

The only reason he catches on is because of his stupid, hopeless crush on Nathan Miller.

Monty tries not to stare- he  _really_ does- because it’s rude and creepy, and it’s not like staring at him is going to get him to make out with him now,  _is it?_

So Monty makes a conscious decision to divert his attention, fiddling with his quill, trying to recite the ingredients needed for Alihotsy Draught in his head-

Miller meet his gaze briefly, the corners of his mouth twisting up to smirk, and Monty jerks his head away so quickly he gives himself whiplash.

Cheeks still flushed, he angles his face away from Miller, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground, on scuffed shoes and untied laces, intertwining hands-

Monty blinks, shifting in his seat surreptitiously.  _It must be a mirage_ , he thinks, dazed and oh so confused, because if his eyes aren’t deceiving him, Clarke Griffin is holding Bellamy Blake’s hand.

He watches, with bated breath, as Clarke releases his hand carefully, resting her chin against the crook of her elbow as if to hide her smile, her knee jiggling under the desk. Barely five seconds have passed when Bellamy swings his hand back, grabbing hold of hers again and squeezing. Easy, companionable,  _affectionate_.  

Bellamy’s running his thumb over her knuckles now, slow and deliberate, his face carefully blank as he leans back in his chair. Clarke’s not that great at keeping a poker face, it seems, though her grin is mostly hidden by the curve of her elbow. She reaches up, tugging at his curls playfully, and he disguises his yelp of surprise with a cough instead.

Monty was pretty intrigued at first, but it’s just gross now. Still, it’s not totally unexpected. They have always felt inevitable to him, always gravitating towards one another despite the constant fighting and hostilities, magnetic and electric.

(“The sex would probably be phenomenal.” Jasper grins, lewd, when Monty shares his theory. It’s enough for Monty to never,  _ever_ want to discuss Bellamy and Clarke with Jasper ever again.)

Miller’s looking at him, when Monty finally pulls his gaze away, his expression contemplative. His throat goes dry at the curve of his mouth, the conspiratorial look he shoots him, bemused and annoyed all at once.

“Idiots,” Miller says, all fond.

“Idiots,” he agrees, dropping his chin onto his desk so he can grin into the safety of his sleeve.

**\+ Raven**

It was  _just_  like them to ruin her plans. Raven’s not even surprised, at this point.

She has had this betting pool going on for weeks now, amassing a surprising following after she announced that her money was on Bellamy and Clarke getting together by the end of the term. Or, getting it on, at least.

She had been convinced that there would have been some grand, sweeping, and very public declaration of love (most likely from Blake’s part, the boy was an overgrown puppy) followed by some very inappropriate public displays of affection in the following weeks.

Raven’s keen that way, okay? She’s a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out sexual tension and mutual pining, and she had caught their scent for months now. It was all just a matter of time, and when it happened, she would be there to reap the rewards.

What she’s  _not_ expecting is for them to get together with as little fanfare as possible.

The great hall erupts into whispers when they saunter in, hand-in-hand, completely oblivious to the ruckus. Clarke has Bellamy’s Gryffindor scarf knotted around her neck, and Bellamy’s sporting a hickey under his ear that he’s not even  _attempting_ to conceal. Raven tries not to gape when he settles down at the Slytherin table next to Clarke, totally at ease, and begins buttering his bread roll.

“Holy shit,” Wick breathes when Bellamy bends down to give Clarke a chaste kiss on the mouth- absent minded and comfortable, definitely one of the many they have shared prior to this- and it feels like the entire great hall is holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to come in with the damned punchline already-

But it never does arrive, and Raven can only watch with begrudging interest when Clarke stands on her tiptoes to plant a quick kiss against Bellamy’s cheeks, her hands perched on his broad shoulders and his coming around to hold her waist, keeping her upright.

“I’m happy for you, I really am,” Raven tells her, when they finally have a shared class in the afternoon, “I just wish I didn’t have to lose fifteen sickles over it.”

“Serves you right for betting on us,” Clarke mutters as she busies herself with re-potting a bouncing bulb.

“Is it serious?” she asks, sly, giving her a pointed nudge in the ribs. (Raven already knows the answer to that of course, but she’s not going to miss out on the chance to embarrass her best friend. She has her priorities straight.)

“Uh, I’m bringing him home for the holidays, so. I guess pretty much? He has to meet my mom sometime.” She adds, worrying her lip with her teeth.

It is a big deal. Raven isn’t all  _that_ clear on the Abigail Griffin situation, but Bellamy must mean a great deal to Clarke if she’s willing to risk it.  Her mind inadvertently flits back to Finn, but she pulls back before she can start dwelling on it.

“So, I’m curious. What exactly did you bet on us about?”

Raven arches a brow, snorts at the blatant curiosity on Clarke’s face.

“Do I get anything out of this if I tell you?” she demands.

“Maybe,” she teases, frustratingly vague, reminding her annoyingly of Bellamy and the shit-eating grin he used to shoot her every time he would beat her in charms.  _Couples_. The absolute worst, all of them.

(Clarke does make it up to her though- with Bellamy bursting into the great hall the very next week with a hugely over-the-top declaration of love, rose petals and all before shoving his tongue down her throat- nauseating stuff, but Raven gets her sickles back, so all is good.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> send me prompts or come yell at me on my [tumblr](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/), I'm on there 24/7 because I'm trash tbh


	5. three times he thinks he loves her, one time he says it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of you asked for bellamy and clarke's POV from the last chapter, so here we are! I mostly changed up the events a little, but you know. Timeline remains the same and everything.

_three times he thinks he loves her, one time he finally says it_ **  
**

+

The first time doesn’t count.

(That’s what Bellamy likes to tell himself, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened anyway.)

She was still Griffin then-  _princess_ , he likes to remind her, biting harshly at the hollow of her throat while she sucks bruises against his collarbone- and there was nothing else between them but ash and cinder from when they had crashed together and burned.

She has her back to him when he stumbles in, breathless and wild-eyed.

“Griffin?”

She startles at first but recovers remarkably quickly, reaching out to steady Octavia whose face is pressed up against her knee, sound asleep.

“Bellamy,” she says, surprised, and he tries not to think about when she started calling him that, and more importantly, how much he  _likes_  it.

“She’s okay,” Clarke continues, her fingers still threading through Octavia’s dark hair, working through the knots with ease, “just asleep.”

He swallows, scrambling over to Octavia’s prone form. There’s a small cut over her cheek and a bruise on her wrist, but she’s otherwise unharmed. He exhales shakily against her cheek, gently smooths out the crease between her eyebrows.

“First years tend to get over excited during flying lessons,” Clarke remarks, dry, “there was a boy in my year who got stuck in a tree because he was trying to show off.”

“What an idiot. What happened to him?”

The corners of her mouth twitch at that, “Broke his wrist. His sister fared better, mostly because she wasn’t as reckless.”

“Luckily,” Bellamy says, grinning up at her until she scoots over, exasperated. He settles down next to her quietly, tries not to jostle the bed or look at her too much.

She still has her school robes on, the bright emerald of the slytherin insignia fraying at the edges. It’s unusual, considering Clarke always changes to her casual clothes when she’s helping out at the hospital wing. He wants to loop an arm around her shoulders, pull her close. Or press his thumb against the small bruise against her jaw, run his nails against skin.

He mostly settles for tugging at her sleeve instead.

“You should probably attend to your other patients,” he points out, matter-of-fact, “they’re getting restless.”

Clarke flushes at that, sliding Octavia off her lap carefully so she’s sprawled on the bed before standing.

“It’s not like I’m on duty,” she mutters, pushing her hair behind her ears, a uncharacteristically nervous gesture.

He blinks, asks, “So why are you here?”

She shrugs, avoiding his gaze, carefully nonchalant, “I saw them bring her up from the pitch. Thought I should check up on her, just in case.”

 _You were looking out for her_ , his throat going tight at the thought,  _you were looking out for us._

“It’s not a big deal,” Clarke insists, her eyes still fixed on the small crack on the table by the bed, face turned away. Only the soft nape of her neck is visible from this angle, dusted with fine blonde hair and freckles.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, stupid and desperate and aching, or, at least,  _I could_. _I want to._

He has to look away too, before he does something impulsive.  

“Thank you,” Bellamy manages instead.

(It still sounds a lot like a confession. They don’t talk about it.)

+

She’s the one who falls off her broom, but the air whooshes out of his lungs all the same anyway.

“You scared me,” he says against the underside of her jaw, trembling, and it’s funny how her hands are steady when she wipes at his face while he’s barely holding it together.

“It was just a broken arm,” she adds, wry, resting his palm over her mended elbow, still warm to touch, “it’s all good now.”

 _I can’t lose you_ , he wants to say, but he trips over the words and it lolls against his tongue, clumsy and loose, comes out as, “I’m going to put you in full body armour for your next game.”

She grins at him, pecks his cheek. “I’ll hold you accountable if we lose.”

(He kisses her cheeks, her eyelids, the crook of her smile at the next game, a litany of I love you’ _s_  disguised as a single, “Stay safe.” He only breathes easy when she wins the game.)

+

He nearly says it the first time he wakes up to her, her hair ticklish against his chest and skin sliding over his.

“This is interesting,” Clarke says, bemused, his stubble brushing up against the back of her neck, “you should stop shaving.”

“It gets itchy.” he mutters, nosing at her jaw, “It’s more convenient to shave. Go back to sleep.”

“Well, I like it this way.”

“Can we talk about the state of my facial hair later?”

“I’m not going back to sleep, it’s already morning.” she says, disdainful, sliding her leg over his and tapping at his ankle, “We should get up.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Bellamy grumbles, tightening his hold on her hips.

She wiggles in his grasp, eliciting a groan from him when heat shoots to his groin. He flips her over at that, her laughter breathless against his cheek as they wrestle, scratching down his back when he rubs his stubble against the inside of her calf.

“I can’t stand you,” Clarke says in between gasps, tugging at his hair until he relents and scoots up, sliding his arms over and under her shoulder blades so he can cage her in.

“Nah. You like me,” he smirks, leaning down to swallow her laugh, nipping at her chin when she runs her fingers through his hair and traces the divots of his spine.

They lapse back into contented silence soon after, Clarke resuming her ministrations over the muscles of his back while he buries his face against her neck, breathing her in.  She’s warm and flushed, her hair tangled and unruly, nothing like the neat braids she always has them in during the day.

Bellamy pulls back, hovering over her as he takes her in entirely: the grit caught between her eyelashes and the snarls of hair stuck against her neck, the curve of her mouth and the flash of teeth.

He would stay here forever, he thinks, wrapped up in Clarke Griffin if she’d let him.

“Can we do this more often?” she says, a little plaintively, and he laughs, muffling the sound against her shoulder.

“Sure, if you can get this room to open for you again.”

“No problem,” she teases, confident, and she’s saying something else but he can’t focus with the words seized up in his throat-

“You okay?” Clarke asks, cupping his cheek against her palm so he’d look at her.

“Yeah,” he breathes, kissing the mole by her mouth, the other one by her ear, “Fine.”

(He tells her have a good day in lieu of I love you, kisses her hard and hopes that maybe it’s enough for her to understand what he’s really trying to say.)

+1

In the end, it’s a lot less dramatic than he’d thought it would be.

He’s helping her with her potions essay- well, mostly by fetching the books she needs on the tall shelves (Bellamy suspects it’s mostly to do with the fact that she gets a nice view of his ass when he stretches up to retrieve them)- when she says it, casual as can be.

“Oh, and could you grab asiatic anti-venoms for me too?” Clarke adds, absentminded, chewing on the end of her quill as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on him.

Maybe he’s gone deaf, he thinks, rubbing vigorously at his ear, his face still stupidly hot.  Obviously he misheard her, she clearly meant  _glove_ -

He wets his lips, reminds himself to sound breezy and nonchalant, “What was that?”

“Asiatic anti-venoms, top shelf on the left.”

“Before that,” he insists, tightening his grip on the crumbling spine of most potente potions-

She blinks, considering, and Bellamy tries to distract himself by watching dust motes float lazily in the air, settling against the skin of her neck and in the strands of her hair-

“I said, thanks for doing this,” she says with deliberate slowness, crossing over towards him to stand between the vee of his legs, “And I love you.”

His hands are shaky when he grabs onto hers, leaning down so their foreheads line up. The angle is awkward and her lips keep brushing up against his nostril but  _god_ , does he love her.

“Please tell me you’re not joking.”

She snorts at that, nuzzling at his cheek until he reaches over to hold her chin in place with his thumb and forefinger.

“I love you, okay? I don’t want you to feel like you have to say it back or-”

Bellamy surges forward to kiss her then, messy and sloppy, his hands grasping clumsily at her waist to pull her close. It’s not much kissing as it is laughing against each other’s mouths, teeth clacking together and the quick press of mouths.

He finally brings himself to pull away when the urge to breath is too much, but he stays close enough that her breath still fans warmly over his mouth, her lashes tickling his cheekbones when he tells her, “I love you too.”

She laughs at that, her arms coming up to loop around his neck when she says, “I probably should have told you that after I asked you about coming home with me.”

“You want me to meet your mom?”

Clarke scowls, pushing at his chest, “You don’t have to sound so  _delighted_ about it. You should be terrified.”

“I am,” he tells her, but it’s impossible to reign in the huge smile on his face, because the girl he’s stupidly in love with loves him back and he’s meeting her  _family_ \-  

“I can’t believe I’m in love with you,” she says, rueful, tugging at his hair, “You’re such a dork.”

And because he can’t resist the opportunity to, he adds smugly, “Dork you’re totally in love with.”

(Bellamy suspects that the humongous hickey she gives him after is mostly to get him to shut up, but really, he’s not complaining.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally narrowed down this fic to seven chapters (seven being a symbolic number in the hp universe and everything) so send me prompts over on my [tumblr](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com) if you want me to cover anything specific!


	6. abigail griffin, meet bellamy blake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I was going through the comments, and a lot of you requested for some Abby in this fic, so here she is! obviously she's a big fan of Bellamy. I mean, _OBVIOUSLY_

The first impression Abigail Griffin has of Bellamy Blake is that he has  _terrible_  hair.

He’s not charming, like Finn, or even coolly composed like Lexa, that one fling Clarke had when she visited Beauxbatons over the summer. Despite her non approval of either of them, at least she could see the appeal.

But him? Abby has genuinely no idea what her daughter sees in Bellamy Blake.

He’s so unkempt for one, with that unsightly hair that he never seems to brush, the smudged lenses of his glasses that he wears for reading. His shirts always seems to have an assortment of stains and holes on them, his shoes scuffed and well-worn. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t even own dress robes.

(The worst part is that Clarke has taken to wearing his clothes around the house too, oversized jackets and shirts that end at her knees, ratty Gryffindor scarf thrown around her shoulders. A  _Gryffindor_ , no less. Abby almost wishes Jake was still here to see this.)

She hates how they’re almost always touching- shoulders brushing and hooked pinkies, chins on shoulders and resting their weight on one another- all absent minded, easy affection. Familiar and intimate in a way that makes her ache, makes her wistful even, because Jake’s gone and there’s no going back from that.

Resentful too, she can’t help but think, because she loved Clarke  _first,_  and yet she orbits around him like he’s the goddamned sun.

“What do you think of him?” she asks breathlessly after their first dinner together, with Bellamy having been sequestered promptly to his room under the guise of a shower. Abby can’t help but think, rather dryly, that her’s daughter efficiency is commendable.

“He seems nice enough,” Abby manages, diplomatic, and mostly because she can’t help herself, “but I still think you’re too young to be dating.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she announces, “ _mom_. You can’t keep-- using that excuse on me. It’s not that, isn’t it?”

And god, Abby wishes she could tell her that she met Jake when she was fifteen, that they married when she was seventeen because she was pregnant. That she spent ten years to get to where she is, career-wise, when she could have accomplished it in five. That she loved him and he still left her behind anyway, because death doesn’t stop to take anyone’s feelings into account.

But she doesn’t because Clarke was not a mistake, and saying it out loud would insinuate precisely that. So she just wets her lips, tells her instead, “I don’t want you making my mistakes, that’s all.”

She arches a brow at that, states, “You met dad at Hogwarts.”

“And while marrying him was one of the greatest choices I made, I also missed out on a ton of opportunities. Opportunities you will have.” she sighs when Clarke folds her arms under her chest, defiant and stubborn and Jake written all over it, “I’m not going to stop you from dating him.”

“Oh, like you didn’t stop Finn from dating me?”

Abby can’t hold back her snort at that, because Finn fucking Collins is a  _joke_. “I didn’t make him do anything, Clarke. I offered him a full-ride scholarship to Durmstrang, and he took it without hesitation. What does that say about him, really?”

Clarke’s jaw snaps shut at that, clearly surprised, but her gaze is more considering than angry when she finally meets her eyes.

“Bellamy’s nothing like Finn.”

“The differences between both are apparent,” Abby mutters, doesn’t add,  _especially in the hair_ , because that would just be petty.

That seems to placate Clarke well enough because she leaves shortly after, and Abby goes to bed after casting a imperturbable charm on the door. (She really, really doesn’t want to know what they might hypothetically get up to in the middle of the night. Really.)

She’s planning on steering clear of him as much as possible-or avoiding him entirely- but as luck would have it, she bumps into him in the kitchen the very next day.

He greets her, perfectly polite, pours her a cup of coffee all while maintaining conversation on the new O.W.L guidelines, and god, does she hate to admit it, but the real reason Bellamy Blake gets under her skin is because he’s not  _afraid_ of her.

(Even Lexa- stoic, entirely too calm Lexa- had been afraid of her, to a certain extent. The fact that a boy with eternal bed head and holes in his socks, a boy who couldn’t tell the difference between a regular fork and a dessert one  _doesn’t,_  well. It discomfits her.)

She clears her throat, steels herself for the question she’s been dying to ask since he got here, “What are your intentions with my daughter, Mr. Blake?”

He blinks at her, then goes, “Bellamy. You can call me Bellamy.”

Abby bristles,  _not the point_ , she nearly snaps, but somehow manages to hold back. “Bellamy,” she says, through gritted teeth, “what are your intentions with my daughter?”

“I love her,” he says, steady, without even batting an eyelid, “and I’m sticking around for however long she wants me to.”

A part of her nearly laughs at that, because it’s naive, because it’s stupidly innocent of him to think so. But there had been a time not too long ago when Jake had looked at her, and told her with all the conviction in the world,  _I’m going to marry you someday_  and he did, he did, he did.

Jake would have liked him. That’s enough, she thinks, for now.

“Good answer.” she tells him, and that’s that.

(She gives him dress robes for Christmas, in a color she knows he hates and he gives her a parenting book in return and fine, Abigail Griffin might as well admit that she’s grudgingly fond of Bellamy Blake. But only 65% of the time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one last chapter to go! I was thinking of doing clarke's POV (because this fic has been written consistently in Bellamy's) from year one to year seven, so tell me what you think about that? Or you guys could just send me hogwarts related prompts (OR CHRISTMAS ONES BECAUSE I'M PUMPED ABOUT THE HOLIDAY. also I can post it as a tumblr prompt) to get me inspired because I feel bad for taking approximately 3888558 years to update this fic.


	7. the one where Bellamy proposes (and almost everyone else is in on it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a bunch of prompts asking for a bellarke hogwarts proposal and OR a chandler bing style proposal. So I was like, why not do both?? and here we are!

_\+  Miller_

It’s almost fitting, Bellamy thinks, that Miller is the first to find out considering that this was how it all started.

“Well,” he says dryly, tracing the edges of the small velvet box with his pointer finger, “at least it’s not a lacy purple bra this time.”

Bellamy groans, lets his head thump back against the doorframe, “You’re such a snoop.”

Miller scowls, drops the ring box into Bellamy’s waiting palm. “I was looking for a beer.”

“I don’t store my alcohol in my _drawers_.” he retorts, exasperatedly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, “Just admit that you were snooping already-”

“It’s a stupid hiding place.” Miller says dismissively, smirk growing into a full-blown grin at Bellamy’s glare, “why don’t we talk about how _you’re_ a nervous wreck because you’re going to propose to the one and only Clarke Griffin?”

“I’m not _nervous._ ” he snaps, hating how petulant he sounds already, “I’ll have you know, I happen to have a foolproof plan.”

Miller eyes him warily, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s bracing himself, “Do I even _want_ to know?”

“Of course you do. It’s brilliant.” he insists, thumping Clarke’s side of the bed until Miller relents and crosses the room to sit right by the edge, “First step: I act like a complete dick about the whole marriage situation to throw Clarke off my trail. Second--”

“This is a terrible plan already.” Miller interrupts, clearly unimpressed, “It’s going to blow up in your face, and I’m going to have to say _I told you so_ \--”

“Second step,” Bellamy continues, oblivious, “I propose to her at the ball.”

There’s a pregnant pause, before Miller goes, “Back at Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. It’s where we started.” His face feels stupidly hot all of a sudden, heat creeping up his neck, “I was supposed to chaperone the yule ball this year, so. I’ll bring Clarke with me, and uhm. Pop the question, I guess.”

“Good call.” Miller admits, “Everything else though. Everything else is _crap_.”

“Says the guy who nearly lost his ring because he had the brilliant idea to hide it in the interior of a laptop.”

“It was _romantic_.” Miller blusters, “And it worked, anyway. So.”

“Well, Clarke’s not like Monty, okay? She’s creepily observant, for one. And deeply suspicious by nature, so I have to do this if I want it to be a surprise.” He kicks out at Miller’s legs, barely making any contact, “Are you even listening anymore?”

“I was just wondering if you’d still look good in your engagement photos if you’re sporting a black eye,” Miller adds, nonchalant, “courtesy of Clarke, of course.”

“You’re just a right ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Bellamy mutters, uncapping the beer bottle with a flick of his wand.

Miller smirks, flopping down onto the bed and messing up the carefully made sheets, “That’s why you keep me around, Blake.”

 

\+   _Octavia_

Bellamy has no idea if Octavia will ever grow out of her forehead flicking phase but suffice to say it’s not going to be anytime soon.

“What the fuck, O?” he ekes out, rubbing at the rapidly swelling point between his brows. Honestly, she would have taken out his eye if he had moved even _slightly._ It’s downright terrifying.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she growls, smacking him across the shoulder with enough force to make him stagger back, “I can’t believe you said that to Clarke. Are you looking to fuck this up?”

“Jesus, no. It’s--” he pauses, tries to remember exactly what happened, “what did I say again that was so wrong, actually?”

Octavia gapes, reaches over to twist the skin of his elbow until he swats her away, yelping, “The part when you said that marriage wasn’t even on the _cards_ for you!”

“Oh, right.” He goes back to rubbing at his forehead, wincing at the pain that shoots down his nose when his thumb lands a little too heavily on the bruise, “No big deal.”

“Clarke looked like she was going to cry,” Octavia snarls, movements clumsy when she finally sputters, “this-- I thought-- I thought she was _it_ for you, you asshole.”

He frowns, finally has the foresight to pull out his wand and mutter _episkey_ so the swelling goes down, “She is it for me.”

“Well maybe you should tell her that.” she snarks, hands planted on hips and all geared up for a fight, “Are you an imposter? Because the Bellamy I know, the Bellamy _I grew up with_ once watched a muggle TV show about weddings for five whole hours. One time-”

“Say yes to the dress.”

She stops mid-rant, clearly confused at the interruption, “What?”

Bellamy shrugs, “That’s the name of the show.”

She lets loose a impatient shriek at that, hands flailing wildly, “Not the point, you insufferable _asshole_. As I was saying-”

He’s half tempted to let her go on until she loses steam, but Octavia always cries after angry outbursts and it’s not worth the drama, really. So he waits until there’s an appropriate lull in her yelling before he goes, “I’m proposing.”

“I swear, Bell, if you’re just doing this so I’ll get off your back-”

“I have a ring.” he counters-now safely hidden under the floorboards of their bedroom- “I’ve been planning this for months now.”

She blinks up at him, a little chagrined, “So, everything you said earlier…?”

“Was just a ruse so she wouldn’t get suspicious.” Bellamy grumbles, “Jeez. I can’t believe you have so little faith in me.”

“Well, it’s a ridiculous plan.” she scoffs, then consideringly, “Ridiculous but also kind of genius. When are you actually going to go through with it?”

“During the yule ball. I’m supposed to chaperone and--”

She grabs ahold of his arms, hard enough to bruise and making him squawk in indignation, “Bell. I need to be there.”

“It’s not like I don’t _want_ you to be there, but it’s not like these tickets are easy to come by.” He wiggles out of her hold, shaking out his limbs carefully, “Clarke is already my plus one, so-”

Octavia glares, though the effect is somewhat ruined by her humongous grin, “You’re a teacher at Hogwarts. Can’t you just pull some strings?”

“Not if I value my job, no.”

“Fine.” she declares with a swish of her hair, “I’ll just handle it myself then.”

(She gets two tickets to the ball the very next day, one for her and one for Lincoln, her new boyfriend from Durmstrang. Bellamy’s not even surprised at this point.)

 

\+   _Raven_

The funny part is that he only grows closer to Raven _after_ Hogwarts.

“It’s a good thing.” she says, rolling her eyes when he tells her so. “We would have ripped each other to pieces back when we were kids.” Then, smugly, “I would have totally won, obviously.”

They take walks around the quidditch pitch during lunch, Raven hobbling behind him slightly, huffing when he slows down for her sake, _don’t you fucking dare_ rolling off her tongue rapidly until he picks up the pace.

He only visited her once after her accident, Clarke’s fingers vice-like around his. He couldn’t read the papers for weeks after without seeing her name, without hearing someone lament about the loss of one of the greatest quidditch players they’ve ever seen. It still turns his stomach sometimes, thinking about her lying in the hospital bed, veins stark against the pale oval of her eyelids.

“ _Bellamy._ ”

“Sorry.” He jerks out of his stupor, re-focuses his attention on her. “What were you saying?”

Raven rips a chunk of grass off the field, sprinkles it in his hair. “Stop daydreaming about Clarke, it’s gross. She tells me enough about your sex life as it is.”

“Shut up.” he grumbles, trying to tamp down the blush rising against his cheekbones. He had woken up to Clarke dropping kisses down the length of his spine, biting down on his shoulder when he tried to push her off to look at her. She fell back asleep again after, clinging onto his back, mouth pressed up against his shoulder blades and he could hardly bring himself to leave for work.

It still feels like he’s dreaming, sometimes. He never thought he would deserve someone like Clarke Griffin, someone who could make him happier than he’s ever known, and yet here they are.

“It’s like I’m not even here.” Raven sighs, and he retaliates by shaking the grass she’s sprinkled into his hair right onto her lap. She makes a sound of disgust, grudgingly hands over her canteen of pumpkin juice for him to sip while she cleans herself off.

They lapse back into companionable silence again, the only sound being the whistle of the wind and Bellamy taking big gulps of juice. There’s still grass stuck to the robes of Raven’s flying instructor robes, flecks of green splattered all over the slightly rusted metal of her leg brace. She rolls her eyes when she catches him looking.

“You know, you guys are really sexually active for an old married couple.”

He spits up juice at that, nearly hacks up a lung--

“It’s just an _expression_ ,” Raven swears, thumping at his back, “jeez, I’m not insinuating that you guys are married--”

“Uh huh.” he agrees weakly, “Sure. Yup.”

“Unless-- Holy shit!” She slaps him on the arm, metal brace digging into the outside of his thigh and making him wince, “You’re proposing, aren’t you?”

Bellamy wipes at his mouth, manages a gruff, “Yeah. Well.”

“About time,” she says approvingly, “you guys have been together forever. I thought you guys would be the first to get hitched, but Miller beat you to the punch.”

“It’s not a race.” he mutters, tearing off another chunk of grass with his fingers, “Don’t go yelling about it to everyone.”

Raven rolls her eyes again, this time with exaggerated slowness. “I’m not planning to. Have you gotten the rings yet?”

“Yeah, um. It’s definitely something she’d like.”

She nods absently, smile soft like he’s never seen before, “Can I make some improvements?”

Bellamy licks his lips, shrugs, “Depends on what it is.”

Raven laughs, rolls onto her back and kicks her legs up, “Trust me on this, Bellamy. Let this be my wedding gift to you guys.”

“I don’t know.” he groans, “I won’t put it past you to engrave a penis on the stone or something.”

“Tacky.” she states baldly, slotting her arms under her head to bask in the sun, “I was thinking more of a middle finger, or like, decapitated bodies.”

“Fancy stuff.” he drawls, lobbing another chunk of grass at her face. It pegs her cheek this time, leaving a glob of mud, and it satisfies him enough to settle down on the grass next to her, grinning up at the sun.

 

\+   _Murphy_

Bellamy honestly doesn’t _mean_ to tell Murphy about the proposal, it just slips out.

Which is poor form, really, because Murphy can’t keep a secret to save his life and has a tendency to fuck things up without even trying. There’s a horrifying, completely paralysing moment after, where they just stare at each other, gaping and stuttering, until Bellamy regains his senses and pulls him into the kitchen to talk.

“I can’t believe you _tricked_ me into telling you.”

“How is you panicking and blurting it out turn into me tricking you?” Murphy hisses, kicking the door shut behind him, “You weren’t going to tell me?”

“I was planning to.” Bellamy mutters. It’s not exactly lying when he was planning on telling Murphy _after_ the proposal, so.

“Well, it certainly took you long enough.” he snarks, jerking the door open so he catches a glimpse of Clarke through the crack-paint smudged over her brow, flecks of it caught in the loose strands of her hair- cooing at little Daisy.

(It’s hard to reconcile this Murphy with the one who once put dungbombs under all the first years beds just to watch them squeal, but well. He’s a _father_ now. Bellamy has actually witnessed him learning how to change a diaper with all the focus of when he decided to jinx his divination teacup to bite anyone who tried to drink out of it.)

“I swear, if you say something--”

“I think you raised her suspicions enough when you yelped at the mention of _wife_ ,” Murphy sneers, then at the sound of Daisy gurgling from the living room, brightens, “can Daisy be the flower girl?”

“Sure,” He glares, forcing himself to smile when Clarke glances over, brows knitted together and lip trapped between teeth, “if the plan doesn’t fall apart by then, definitely.”

 

\+   _Clarke_

It’s disorienting to wake up on an unfamiliar bed, he thinks, with his throat dry and sheets clenched between his fingers and toes numb from dangling over the bed frame--

Then he hears Clarke sigh and he relaxes, reaching for her until her warm body collides against him, her _oof_ muffled against his collarbone as he spits snarls of blonde hair out of his mouth. 

“Ow.” Bellamy grumbles, but not before slinging his arm over her waist and crushing her closer to his chest, “Careful, my airbags don’t work.”

“Monty really needs to stop telling you about cars.” she groans, stumbling over her words as she breaks off to yawn. “You weren’t even interested in muggle studies before.”

“Well, Monty wasn’t the professor before.” he retorts, ducking down and dropping a kiss against her temple, “How did you sleep?”

“Awful.” Clarke says, pushing up to give him a smacking kiss on the mouth, “Imagine if you opted to stay here instead of moving in with me.”

Bellamy smirks, wiggles his toes that are still hanging over the too-small bed, “And to think I was nearly swayed by all that talk about professors having their own private quarters.”

(Really. While it made logical sense to stay over before the yule ball, the entire experience was decidedly uncomfortable mostly because the room is positively tiny and a little too cold for his liking. It makes him miss their little apartment, how it always smells like the candles Clarke likes to burn, pillows scattered on every surface.)

“It’s a shoebox.” she announces, disentangling from him so she can stretch. He whines at the cool rush of air against his bare skin, fumbles for her until she huffs and curls back up against his side. He smiles, buries his face against her neck so he can breathe her in. She smells a little like the musty bedsheets but also her citrus flavored shower-gel, the one he bought for her on his first business trip out of the country, “Excited to be back?”

She hums, a contented little sound before she weaves their fingers together, “Yup. Probably shouldn’t have let Harper ply me with all that whiskey though. My head hurts.”

He freezes at that, tries frantically to bat away the memory that surfaces, of Harper grasping at Clarke’s bare finger, the insistently loud _why haven’t you wifed her up yet--_

Clarke wiggles up against him until his grip loosens, and her expression is fierce when she turns over to look at him, reminiscent of when they used to size each other up before sending out a potentially embarrassing jinx.

“Don’t you dare.” She’s quivering now, eyes bright, “I swear, Bellamy-- if you’re not, if you’re not going to marry me _ever,_ you better tell me now before--”

“That’s not-- I’m--”

“I know marriage is just,” She rubs a hand over her face, swearing softly under her breath, “maybe you think it’s just a title, or something, and that’s fine. I don’t feel the same way, but you should have _told_ me about it instead of making all these offhand comments.”

“I do.” He says through the lump in his throat, brushing away the tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, “I really want to marry you, in fact.”

Clarke scoffs, the sound watery more than anything, “You used to tell me about the _kids_ we would have, you asshole. I’ve been going crazy thinking about what changed--”

He left the ring in the pocket of his suit, for safekeeping purposes and Bellamy knows it’s supposed to be a surprise, knows that Octavia will murder him for caving when they’re just hours away from the entire shindig, but. Clarke’s _crying_ and he’d rather be flayed alive than watch her cry for a second longer.

She startles when the closet doors slam up against each other, the ring box now in his palm, and he thinks he hears a strangled noise leave her throat.

Bellamy clears his throat, goes, “I asked your mom a few months back. She was real forthcoming with her answer, let’s just leave it at that. But uh, everything else.” He swallows, tightens his grip on the box, “Miller told me this was a bad idea. And if I made you feel this way, then he was right. I know I’m an idiot but--”

“The worst,” she interrupts, though he can’t help but note that she’s smiling now too, “ _Bellamy_.”

He pops the ring box open, and her breath catches which makes him stupidly smug.

“It’s engraved too.” he points out, detaching hers and tilting it so she can see, “Raven wanted to do a message, I think, but I convinced her to do this instead.”

“A lion.” she smirks, tracing its edges, “Now, why’s that?”

“Because mine has a snake on it.” he mumbles, face hot. And at her arched brow, he adds, “So I can carry you with me, wherever I go. It’s, uh. I thought it would be fitting, because this is where we met, this is where--”

Clarke stops him with a kiss, lacing their fingers together and he can feel the cold press of the ring against his palm when she smiles against his mouth, her breath a little stale from having just woken up.

“I love you.” she murmurs when he pulls away, slipping the ring onto her finger carefully, “Even though you can be a real idiot sometimes.”

“You didn’t even say yes yet.” he teases, but she puts his ring on anyhow, rolling her eyes when he kisses her on the nose.

“You already know.” She laughs, throwing her leg over his and straddling him before kissing him, hard, the cool metal digging into the side of his skin and making him giddy all over again.

“We have a few hours before the ball.” he adds, hopeful, his voice trailing away to a groan when she grinds down on his lap.

She gives a long-suffering sigh, grins when he finally manages to tug off her shirt, “Well, I wouldn’t want to break tradition or anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He agrees, looping his scarf around her shoulders before pulling her back down onto the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me on this! Honestly, I got a little emotional ending this because I genuinely love writing for this series, but you know, it was time, so. Hope y'all enjoyed it!
> 
> random update: I've recently hit 1.5k followers on tumblr and will be doing a fic giveaway! Details [here](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/post/138671454588/prosciuttoe-15k-you-guys-i-dont-know-what) if y'all are interested.


	8. A Thousand Rainy Days Since We First Met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, remember a long, _long_ time back, when I said I was definitely done with this fic? I mean, I _am_ but exceptions had to be made because it's Mia's birthday today (check out antebellamy if you guys haven't yet) and this was the series that brought us together. (or more like the series that got her to start following me on tumblr and EVERYTHING ELSE IS HISTORY.) 
> 
> Anyway, think of this as Clarke's POV to all seven years of rivalry between her and Bellamy. Hope y'all like it and have a good day <3

**I.  
**

This is how it all starts for them; eleven years old and on opposite ends of the Hogwarts Express, barging into each other with enough force to send books flying and their limbs sprawling.

The boy gets to his feet first, the concern in his expression morphing into one of contempt at the sight of her neatly polished shoes, the shiny watch clasped to her wrist.

“Be careful!” She says, shrill, nervously wiping at the watch face, checking for scratches.

He scowls over at her, mouth twisting a fraction so he can sneer, “you’re the one with your nose up in the air, _princess_.”

Her cheeks heat up at that, bristling at his tone, condescending and commanding all at once. “ _Don’t_ call me that.”

“If the shoe fits.” The boy shrugs, edging past her carefully, as if further contact could lead to contamination, “see you around, princess.”

“Jerk!” Clarke calls out to the sight of his receding back, marching back to the confines of her cabin. The door rattles loudly on its hinges when she slams it shut.

(She will learn, later, that his name is Bellamy. It’s a pretty name, despite his less than stellar personality, and Clarke will _also_ master the art of spitting it from between teeth for the next few years of her life.)

There is some comfort in the knowledge that he won’t be in the same house as her, at least. _He won’t be,_ she tells herself, as they all file into the great hall, wet and shivering from their boat ride over to the castle. Still, she can’t help but look for him, scanning the crowd on her tip-toes, dropping back onto the balls of her feet when she spots a dishevelled mop of curls, the same pair of too-big glasses that won’t stop slipping off the bridge of his nose.

Clarke holds her breath when the hat is placed upon his head. Up there, he looks smaller than she thought he was, all knobbly knees and restless fingers tapping out a beat against his thigh.

The next time they see each other, there’s a frayed Gryffindor patch sewn onto Bellamy Blake’s robes; a Slytherin one on hers, and she sticks her tongue out the same time he tries to trip her up.

( _This,_ she likes to tell the people that ask, this is how it starts. This is how they begin.)

**II.**

Her second year at Hogwarts brings about an unwelcome change in the form of drastically different schedule. Tuesdays and Thursdays, once Charms shared with the Ravenclaws- was now History of Magic with the Gryffindors. As was Potions and Transfiguration and _even_ Herbology.

Which meant, namely, that she had _four_ whole shared classes with Bellamy Blake.

Each class started the same way, with him throwing the first punch (a snide _princess_ as a form of greeting) followed by a pointed observation on her part (re: general ineptitude at using a hairbrush, his impulsive tendencies) that promptly led to a rebuttal on _his_ part (more often than not, a challenge on the day’s lessons) which, simply put, led to total and utter mayhem.

Most teachers were smart enough to keep them separated, considering it was a lot harder to cause a ruckus when you were separated by four whole rows of students.

Professor Kane, unfortunately, just wasn’t one of them.

He slides into the seat next to hers when class commences, nudges her in the ribs, _hard._ “Bet you can’t make a babbling beverage faster than I can.”

Clarke scoffs, averts her gaze back to the neat line of print on her parchment. “You must really like losing, huh?”

“Scared?” Bellamy goes, his gaze simpering, head tilted in mock sympathy.

“You wish.” She mutters, before offering him an outstretched hand for him to shake.

It starts out easy enough: setting out the alihosty leaves to stew, bringing the water to a boil. Clarke hates how it gets progressively difficult to concentrate though; his presence a thorn in her side, niggling her every so often that she finds herself peering over at his cauldron constantly, trying to work out if he’s ahead.

He catches her watching, shoots her a smug, insufferable smile.

“Already behind?” Bellamy goes knowingly, dropping a handful of dried billywig stings into his cauldron. “Ready to give up?”

“You wish.” She says, saccharine sweet, casually flicking the dregs of her leech juice over at him.

He draws back at that, brows scrunching together in annoyance. “Quit it.”

“What was that?” Clarke chirps, stifling the urge to giggle when her next shot splatters the lens of his glasses, bouncing against the rim of his cauldron. “Did you mean--”

His cauldron shudders once, twice, before it goes off with a humongous bang, the desk shaking under the pressure of it. Shrieking, she drops to her knees and under the safety of the desk, pulse racing wildly against her chest.

Everything dissolves into chaos at that, and she registers, faintly, Professor Kane’s attempts at restoring order, along with Bellamy’s uncharacteristic silence. Taking a deep breath, she steels herself, emerging as quietly as she can.

The first thing she notices is the cauldron, or, well, at least the charred and twisted remains of it. And standing over it, one shellshocked Bellamy Blake with soot covering the entirety of his face and arms.

His brows, she notes, choking back a small, helpless laugh, are singed off.

A beat passes before he turns over to look at her, his mouth hanging open comically before he snaps it shut with a decisive click.

“Clarke,” he says, unnervingly calm in a way that makes her wince. (Honestly, the use of her actual name is enough to scare her.) “Did you just _attempt_ to blow my face off?”

They both get a month’s worth of detention for that, and she suffers his cold shoulder for the next two weeks. It distresses her enough that she actually considers apologizing, which was pretty much unheard of in their quasi-friendship.

Clarke could handle him _hating_ her, she thinks, mournfully. But ignoring her? Definitely not.

It lasts all the way to the last Transfiguration class of the month, with the entire situation being distracting enough that she actually gets stumped on the simplest of questions on vanishing spells, staring blankly at the parchment in front of her--

Then, so lightly that she almost misses it, “ _evanesco_ , princess.” A kick at her ankles, her chair jolting at the force behind it, “what are you, stupid?”

It’s hard to wipe the grin off her face after. Especially when he hexes her, right before darting out of class.

**III.**

Clarke is thirteen when she finally puts a name to the nameless, faceless prince of her countless fantasies.

His name was Finn Collins, and he was _dreamy._

(Sometimes she looks back and wonders if his appeal lay in his inoffensiveness, in that ineffable, unflappable charm; the human equivalent of a cupcake with inordinate amounts of frosting and a styrofoam base.)

She couldn’t believe that he noticed her at first, let alone _liked_ her- but he started bringing her wildflowers by the lake and taking her on walks around the quidditch pitch- and suddenly they were _dating,_ all stolen kisses between classes and giggly, love-sick letters sent to her mother.

The plan was to bring him home for the summer; one month at her place and one month at his before reconvening at Hogwarts, recharged and ready for the next school term.

He leaves Hogwarts two weeks before summer commences.

The circumstances of his leaving was suspicious enough- Clarke was definitely already privy to her mother’s interfering ways, at this point- and it was only worsened by the sudden revelation that she hadn’t been the only girl he was seeing. (The Ravenclaws had been all too happy to remind her of that, and she had studiously avoided all of their usual haunts for the remaining weeks.)

Needless to say, it was a terrible couple of days.

She had taken to spending all her time by the lake instead, eating her meals with her feet dangling in the water and occasionally letting herself cry in the safety of a grove of trees. None of her housemates could witness her humiliation here, at least, and it made her feel better.

And _that_ , unfortunately, is how Bellamy finds her.

“What?” She snaps, wiping at her face before shoving her palms under her thighs to keep them from shaking, “just-- stop staring at me already.”

He recovers slightly at that, swallowing audibly before taking two steps forward. “Is everything okay?”

“What do _you_ think?” Clarke bites out, hitching her knees up to her chest. “Don’t act like you don’t know what’s been happening.”

The shrug he gives is a full-bodied one, clumsy and awkward all the same. “I’ve heard bits and pieces.”

Sniffing, she cuts her gaze away from him, working to tamper the sobs building against her chest. “If--if you’re just here to gloat, then just _get_ to it already, okay? I’ll just--”

It’s almost impossible to get a word out after that, so she just buries her face into her sleeve. Maybe the promise of an emotional breakdown would send him scattering and she could go back to mourning the loss of her social life with _some_ dignity--

She startles at the warmth of his palm when he curls it over her shoulder loosely, and distantly, she recognizes the creak of his knees when he shifts his weight to the other foot. Stilling, she raises her chin so she can look at him, resting it against the jut of her knee instead.

It would have been a pretty funny sight if she wasn’t so upset, really. Bellamy, _nervous_ and shaky, balancing precariously on his too-long legs just so he can pat at her back in what she assumes is supposed to be a soothing motion.

Choking back a laugh, she sputters, “are you-- what?”

“This normally _works,_ ” he tells her, indignant, his mouth working its way into a scowl. “Well, it works on Octavia, at least.”

Wrinkling her nose at him, she asks, “your cat?”

“My sister.” He mutters, drawing back and settling down next to her instead. Instinctively, she moves closer, brushing her arm up against his before dropping her head down to his shoulder. (Wells never minded when she used to do this. The ache in her chest throbs at the thought, and she hopes that he’s at least having a good time over at Durmstrang.)

Bellamy stiffens- just for a fraction of a second- before he relaxes, lolling his head back and resting his cheek against her hair.

“Tell me about her.” She manages, her voice small. “What’s she like?”

“She’s a brat, that’s what.” He huffs, the fondness in his tone belying his words, making her smile as she shifts closer to listen.

**IV.**

It was not a part of her plan to join the Quidditch team, but Anya had convinced her.

She didn’t have the raw talent that Raven did (seeker, Ravenclaw) or the half-crazed determination to win every match like Lincoln did (beater, Hufflepuff) but she was decent enough. Playing keeper looked good on her transcript anyway, and it was nice to feel like she was a part of a team.

Their next big match is a week away, and Anya has them running laps and practicing flying formations when it happens.

A swarm of red and gold descending onto the field, hollering and yelling, creating an absolute _ruckus._

She pales, swearing under her breath.

“What’s wrong?” Clarke asks, automatic, drawing up next to her.

Giving a sharp, irritable jerk of her head, Anya sighs. “They must have found a new replacement seeker. Dismount.”

She gapes, nearly falling off her broom in her haste, “so we have to give up our practice time, just because?”

“I can’t do anything about it if they have a note from their head of the house,” Anya hisses in response, her eyes narrowing into slits when Miller peels away from the crowd, grinning, a scrap of parchment fluttering innocently in the breeze as he waves it past their faces.

“Sorry,” he says cheerily, sounding distinctly non-apologetic. “Special exceptions have been made so we can train up our new seeker.”

Clarke eyes the tiny form practically _drowning_ in her set of red and gold seeker robes, snorts. “Yeah. You guys definitely seem to need it.”

A laugh rings out at that, dark and rich and familiar, and she startles when Bellamy shoulders past Miller, the lone figure in his dress robes in a sea of red. “That’s rude. I know you’re feeling threatened, princess, but you don’t have to go on defensive here.”

She scoffs, scrambling to find a witty response to his statement, trying not to get caught up in how he seemed to have put on some muscle during the summer, filling out his uniform in ways that she’s never noticed before. Blustering, she goes, “what are _you_ even doing here, Blake?”

“This is Maya,” he says, nonchalant, gesturing to the aforementioned seeker. “We’re friends, so I’m here for moral support.”

“Oh.” She manages, her cheeks flaming sudden and hot at the tilt of his chin, the slow smile spreading over his face. “Fine then.”

“I’ll escort you out.” He declares, smile widening into a full-blown grin when she rolls her eyes at him. “Come on, are you really going to deprive yourself of my excellent company?”

“Clearly, we have different definitions of what’s considered excellent.” She mutters, sneaking a peek at him from the corner of her eye. His hair was longer now, too, brushing against the collar of his shirt and curling sweetly past his ears. It was distracting. “What subjects are you taking this year?”

Bellamy shrugs, winding his thumbs around the belt loops of his pants. “The same ones as you, most probably.” Then, at her arched brow, adds, “I take my life mission of beating you at every one of your classes really seriously.”

“You need a hobby,” she retorts, elbowing him in the ribs lightly. Such playful, teasing touches wasn’t something new when it came to them, but this felt different somehow; a poorly disguised attempt at flirtation that made her want to bury herself into a hole and never emerge, because _Bellamy Blake_ , of all people--

He gives a mocking gasp at that, clutching at his chest, “after I’ve invested so much time into this? Never. Besides, I think you’ll miss me a little if I was just to up and leave.”

“You wish,” she says hotly, ducking her head when she feels a familiar slither of heat gathering at the base of her neck, flooding her cheeks. It was irrational and stupid, but here she was, actually _blushing_ at his terrible attempts at humor. God, she needed a minute.

Humming in response, she catches his gaze flicking down to her legs, skittering away almost as quickly. “Whatever you say, princess.” He chirps brightly, taking a pointed step off the grass and onto the concrete, “I’d watch where you’re stepping, though.”

Clarke frowns, confused at the abrupt change in topic just as her boot lands heavily onto the ground, mud splashing up onto her ankles, her knees, and she springs back onto the grass, sputtering--

He bursts into laughter at that, side-stepping her carefully and giving her a sarcastic, mock-salute of sorts, “it’s not like I didn’t warn you, princess.”

She glares- okay, crush _over_ \- flipping him off with as much dignity she can muster while he walks away, whistling obnoxiously loud.

**V.**

It wasn’t supposed to happen like _this._

Drawing away shakily, she loosens her grip around his neck, taking another pointed step back. God, it wasn’t even supposed to happen at _all_.

One minute they had been shouting at each other about today’s Divination lesson, saying stupid, horrible things to one another, about blood status and money and privilege and then they were _kissing_ and it felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. Clarke didn’t know what to make of it, not any more.

His eyes are still closed even after she steps aside, mouth swollen and hair askew, and for half a second, she’s almost tempted to dive back in- consequences be damned- but there was her mother to worry about, and they were right here in the open, and--

She presses her palm against his chest when he pushes forward on his toes, chasing after her mouth.

“Bellamy,” she breathes, barely managing to get the words out when he starts to trace at her cheekbone, the look in his eyes immeasurably soft but apprehensive too. Clarke shudders, grants herself three more seconds, leaning into his touch and savouring it while she can.

Swallowing, she steps out of the circle of his arms, her feet poised to run. “It’s not about your blood, status, okay?”

His lips part ever so slightly, brows furrowing- the tell-tale signs that he was about to argue about this with her, make an impassioned speech, maybe- and she bolts before he can, elbow slamming painfully against the banister when she barrels down the stairs.

It’s not like she manages to go far anyway; her legs give out sometime around the third floor, right along the tiny alcove that Monty liked to hide in when he was homesick. It’s a tight squeeze for her but she manages anyway. Swearing, she works to calm the racing of her pulse, the sound of her breath harsh and loud even to her own ears.

 _Figures,_ she thinks, grim, after having calmed down about the entire matter at hand. There was only one person in the world who could so thoroughly fuck up all her plans, and she now knew for a fact that his lips tasted (distractingly) like cinnamon.

Shaking her head to rid herself of any more thoughts of him, she slides out of her hiding place, marching down the corridor defiantly. Whatever had happened between them was terrible and unthinkable and impossible and it was not happening again, not _ever._

(It’s a little difficult to remember this when he has her clawing against his back just two weeks later, kissing her hard enough to make her lightheaded, but at least she _tried_ and that’s really all that matters, right?)

**VI.**

Clarke never really thought herself to be the jealous type- even the whole Finn revelation didn’t make her feel envious in the slightest towards Raven- and she never really understood what it was like to feel possessive or territorial over a person. Wells always made her feel secure in their friendship, and she never quite liked anyone else enough to feel that degree of emotion.

So it takes her a while to identify the emotion she’s feeling right now, watching Roma flirt blatantly with him over dinner.

(Logically, she knew that nothing would come out of it. She knew how Bellamy felt about her, after all- how they felt about each other- and she trusted him beyond anything, too. Still. It stung, having to watch Roma trail a finger up and down his arm while he had squirmed away, looking increasingly uncomfortable.)

She lurches into his arms the minute he comes through the door, trusting him to catch her as she winds her legs around his waist, kissing him greedily.

Bellamy laughs against her mouth, ducking down so he can nuzzle the crook of her neck. “I haven’t been gone _that_ long.”

“You took your sweet time.” She retorts, scrambling for a secure hold around his shoulders before biting down at the skin behind his ear, playful, “though I can’t say I blame you.”

He stiffens at that, pulls away gently so he can look at her. “Are you-- is this about Roma?”

“Kind of,” she shrugs, reaching over to brush his hair out of his eyes. It was getting stupidly long, and he spent more time pushing it out of his face than anything, “but I’m not mad, or anything. Hell, I would have flirted with you if I thought you were single. You know, our entire past rivalry aside.”

“I would have been really flattered, probably.” He deadpans, taking her hand and brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Seriously, though. I uh, made it pretty clear that I wasn’t available or anything like that. So you have nothing to be worried about.”

“I wasn’t _worried_ about anything happening,” she manages, worrying her lip between her teeth, “it was more like, annoyance at the whole situation, you know? I hate having to keep us a secret. I hate having to duck into an empty corridor just to hold your hand, or kiss you only when--”

He leans forward, grunting slightly as he shifts her in his arms. “Or maybe we could just come clean.”

Clarke blinks, disentangling herself from him fluidly. “I told you about my mom, right? About what she did to Finn, and everything else--”

“I don’t care,” Bellamy interrupts, mild. “I mean, do I believe that she could make my life hell? Absolutely, but, well.” He meets her gaze steadily, presses their foreheads together. “It won’t be enough to make me go away. I’m with you, Clarke. I’m always going to be with you.”

The emotion in his voice is enough to make tears spring into her eyes, breath seizing in her throat and making it hard to breathe. “As I am with you,” she manages thickly, suddenly and stupidly fond of him, of _her_ person, her confidant and best fucking friend, and--

Rising to her toes, she kisses him, feeling the tension drain out of his body as he relaxes into it, hands grabbing at her hips and keeping her close.

“So, what?” He asks breathlessly, nipping at her nose before backing up and caging her in against the wall. “How do you think we should do this?”

She laughs, working to unbuckle his belt and yanking his shirt up and over his head, “are you really asking for instruction on how to do _this?_ ”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” He grumbles, nosing her bra strap out of the way. “But fine, be a dick about it. I don’t care.”

Humming, she goes back to the spot behind his ear, biting down hard and sucking; the hot, helpless noise he makes only spurring her on as she drags her mouth down to the hollow of his throat, the jut of his collarbone.

“I’ll come up with something.” She promises him, grinning, before unwinding his scarf and letting it fall to the ground.

**VII.**

This is how it all starts for them: seventeen years old and on opposite ends of the Hogwarts Express, meeting in the middle as the train left the station.

The boy smirks over at her, “fancy meeting you here.”

“Nerd.” The girl shoots back, lacing their fingers together and dropping her head against his shoulder. The world was an unfamiliar blur as the train thundered down the tracks, green and blue, then blue and green all over again.

She feels him swallow, carding his fingers through her hair. “I’m going to miss this place.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, turning to press a kiss on his shoulder. “It was home for the longest time.”

He arches a brow over at her, curious. “You’re not upset.”

“No,” she admits, taking a deep breath to steady herself, pressing her weight against him when the train gives an almighty jerk, “I mean, I was at first. But then I realized something.”

His elbow pokes at her ribs gently, his voice teasing, “and you’re not going to share with the class?”

She pokes her tongue out at him, “I was just getting to it, you ass. Be patient.”

The boy snorts, but falls silent anyway, expectant.

“It’s simple,” she tells him, squeezing his palm as they barrel further and further away from the castle, the sun glinting off its turrets, casting it in an otherworldly glow, “Hogwarts was what brought us together, but you? You’re my home. And as long as we’re together, well. I have nothing to worry about.”

His exhale is shaky against her forehead before he kisses the space between her brows, voice hitching when he says, “god, when did you get so wise?”

The girl snorts, “I’ve always been, you dummy.”

He makes an agreeable noise, absent minded. “I like that this is what we are to each other.”

“It is.” She says, watching as the castle disappears from view, a flock of owls rising to the sky before it all goes away.


End file.
